


5 times martin makes bad tea + 1 time it's made for him

by facingthenorthwind (spacegandalf)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Fluff, M/M, Martin Blackwood is Bad at Making Tea, Post-Episode: e084 Possessive (The Magnus Archives), Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegandalf/pseuds/facingthenorthwind
Summary: Or: an inappropriate joke to make in the workplace, the murder of one plant, some very crossed wires and countless abandoned mugs.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 101





	5 times martin makes bad tea + 1 time it's made for him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperfectcircle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/gifts).



> a thousand billion thanks to kuna, without whom this would never have got written. also shoutout to laura who doesn't even know what TMA is.
> 
> this was inspired by [these tweets](https://twitter.com/krfabian/status/1264670231957471234) about martin being terrible at making tea. i fully brainstormed all the ways he could fuck up tea and then ended up using uhhh none of them? for some reason this shook out in such a way that i am vague as hell about the specific crimes against tea. sorry. but hey, sometimes you listen to a horror podcast and you decide your first fanwork in the fandom must be the characters facing the worst possible horror: ~~a freak philosophy accident~~ the paradox of britishness. what if the tea is bad but you are too polite to say so?

1.  
Jon had better things to do than worry about what his tea tasted like. He wouldn’t even remember to drink, most days, except that one of the archival assistants—the most useless one, Martin—kept offering to make him tea. He would prefer that Martin did his actual job, but as he didn’t seem to be very capable of doing that when he actually put his mind to it, at least when he was making tea Jon could be certain he wasn’t cocking something up.

He’d just finished reading a statement about a haunted wardrobe that was so obviously fake that he almost didn’t bother asking anyone to do follow-up about it when Sasha knocked, opening the door before he’d had the chance to say anything.

“I’m too late,” she said as she got close enough to peer at the mug on his desk, putting a hand to her chest and swooning dramatically. “Martin’s poisoned you, you’ve only got twelve hours left to live.”

“What?” Martin could not possibly have poisoned him. Why would he? Martin did not seem at all capable of murder—honestly! Martin!

“The tea,” Sasha said, indicating his mostly-empty mug. “He didn’t actually poison it, but he may as well have. How did you stomach it?”

Jon floundered, feeling lost. “Uh, I don’t know? I just… drank it. You know. Should I not have?”

“You can’t be serious, boss,” she said, and Jon decided he would just… wait until she explained what was going on. “It’s absolutely toxic. I’ve no idea how he mucks it up so badly—I think the other day he put Marmite in Tim’s! Although thinking about it, that might’ve been to get back at Tim for the…” she trailed off, coughing awkwardly and straightening up. “Anyway, you’re seriously saying you’ve never noticed anything wrong with it?”

“No…? I don’t much care what it tastes like. It’s hot, it’s wet, what more could you want?”

“...said the actress to the bishop,” Sasha said after a beat, as if she just couldn’t help herself. Jon rolled his eyes and she smirked at him. “Well, if he does end up giving you food poisoning, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Although I might swap with you tomorrow, maybe he actually puts in effort with yours.”

“Sure, whatever,” Jon said. It didn’t make any difference to him. “Let’s get back to doing our jobs, shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah, later,” Sasha said, waving as she left, closing the door behind her.

Sasha informed him the next day that he definitely wasn’t getting special treatment—his tea was just as hideous as everyone else’s.

He drank it anyway.

* * *

2\.   
“Happy birthday, Timothy!”

Tim swivelled on his chair and frowned at Sasha, who was smiling far too brightly and holding a large potted plant. It was either a very large shrub or a very small tree. It wasn’t like Tim knew anything about plants; he’d studied anthropology.

“My birthday’s in October?” he said. “You gave me a present then.”

“Well it’s already gone Christmas, so I was struggling for an excuse. Anyway, this is for you.”

“The plant-shrub-tree-thing?”

“Yep! I think it’d do well… hmm,” she said, manoeuvering the plant so that it sat next to Tim’s chair. She stood back, inspecting her handiwork, and then said, “Wait, no, you’re right-handed,” and moved it to the other side of his desk.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Tim asked.

“This,” Sasha proclaimed after looking around to make sure Martin wasn’t in yet, “is your tea plant. So you don’t have to actually drink it—you can just pretend and pour it in here.”

“Surely we’d be doing everyone a service if we just told him he makes shit tea,” Tim said, eyeing his new plant. “Is it real?”

“Yes, it’s real, and I think that’d crush him. You didn’t work with him closely back when we were in research but—I think making tea is important for him? And with Jon being such a dickhead to him…”

“Fine,” Tim huffed. “How much do I need to worry about the plant? Does it need, I dunno, special food or something?”

“Nope, the person at Homebase said it was unkillable.”

It lasted exactly ten days. 

“Hope you kept the receipt, because the person at Homebase lied to you,” Tim said, pointing to the sorry sight that greeted them both. The tree-shrub, once green and glossy, had wilted and withered. “Also,” he added, looking at the door, “this is proof. We have to tell him. What’s he putting in the tea that kills indestructible plants? It can’t be good for human consumption.”

“Tim,” Sasha said as she crouched to get a better look at the extremely dead plant, “did you let your tea cool down before you sacrificed it to the plant? I know it tastes toxic but I don’t think he’s putting actual weed killer in there—I think you just boiled a plant to death. That or ghosts. We can never discount the possibility that a ghost killed it.”

Tim made a sound that Sasha was sure she couldn’t reproduce but very effectively conveyed a mix of disgust, disbelief and annoyance. “I hope the ghost of this plant haunts you,” he said.

He didn’t say anything the next time Martin put a mug of tea on his desk, though. Mission accomplished.

* * *

3.  
 **TIM:** Right, statement of Gary Hargreaves, taken direct from subject on the 7th of February, 2016, concerning—tea? Whenever you’re ready.  
 **GARY:** Where’s your usual guy?  
 **TIM:** Sorry?  
 **GARY:** The man who took my statement last time? You know, dark hair, glasses, got a sort of no-nonsense vibe to him?   
**TIM:** Oh, Jon, he’s out sick. Why—what are you looking like that for?  
 **GARY:** He’s got him too. Oh, God, I knew I should’ve come in sooner, this is all my fault.  
 **TIM:** ...Who’s got him?  
 **GARY:** The Tea Man. The—secretary? I don’t know, he made me tea last time I came. And he tried to make me tea this time too but I’ve wised up to his tricks, I’m not drinking anything he’s touched.  
 **TIM:** Sorry, who is the tea man? Do you mean Martin?  
 **GARY:** I think that’s what he said his name was, yeah. He’s got a round face, lots of freckles.  
 **TIM:** Yeah, that’s Martin.   
**GARY:** I can’t believe I killed him. I’m so sorry.  
 **TIM:** Killed Jon? No, he’s just got food poisoning, he said he’d be back tomorrow but doesn’t want to risk spewing over any of the records. I’m sure no one would begrudge him another day, but he was pretty insistent.  
 **GARY:** He drank the tea, didn’t he.  
 **TIM:** Martin’s? Yeah, He says he doesn’t care what it tastes like. Mad bastard, if you ask me, but I’ve had worse bosses.  
 **GARY:** You _know_ it’s poisoned?  
 **TIM:** What?  
 **GARY:** You just said! He doesn’t care what it tastes like!  
 **TIM:** Yeah, because it tastes crap. Martin makes rubbish tea, but Sasha says we can’t tell him because that’d be mean. Don’t see how it’s any more mean than finding ways to get rid of the tea without drinking it, but, you know.  
 **GARY:** Have you drunk it?  
 **TIM:** Yeah, sometimes I forget and have a sip or two. The first two times I forced myself to drink the whole thing because I dunno, I thought it was polite.  
 **GARY:** And you’ve not had any… adverse effects?  
 **TIM:** ...No? Not that I know of? Is that what your statement is about? Start at the beginning. God, I don’t know how Jon makes these statements sound so easy, bloody hell.  
 **GARY:** I came in here about three months ago to give a statement about the doors I keep seeing, and then they disappear, and everyone insists they never existed in the first place. And when I came in to give that statement, this—Martin offered me tea and a biscuit while I waited for the archivist to be ready, and I said yes, because I was a stupid idiot. The biscuit was fine, it was just a digestive, but the tea—it tasted horribly metallic, like… like bovril gone wrong. So I just… didn’t drink the rest of it, and soon enough the Archivist called me in anyway, and I thought the digestive had got rid of that terrible taste. So I gave my statement and I went home and I made myself tea, in my teapot with my teabags and… and it tasted metallic too. I bought a new kettle, thinking maybe that was the problem, but it didn’t help. I went to a cafe and ordered tea there and—I just… I just want to drink tea again, you know? I’m a simple man, I don’t ask for much, I just…   
**TIM:** It’s alright, I’m sorry, there’s tissues just by your elbow there.  
 **GARY:** Sorry, I’m making a right fool of myself, I’m just so sick of this curse. It _is_ a curse. It only started once I drank his tea. You’ve got to stop him!  
 **TIM:** I don’t think Martin is capable of deliberately cursing anyone.  
 **GARY:** That’s… that’s worse! How many people does he make tea for? How many people’s lives could he have accidentally ruined? Can’t you help me?  
 **TIM:** Look, I’m really sorry you’ve had this experience—I know it feels really overwhelming and horrible, but you can get through it, I believe in you. Have you, uh, tried coffee?

* * *

4.  
When Melanie came down from Elias’s office, Martin was still there, though he had moved to a desk on the floor of the open-plan office instead of the enclosed office (with a much fancier chair) that he had been working at when she first came in. She hoped she could just make it to the door without him noticing her and he could be cross at her for whatever he wanted to be cross at her for tomorrow, but no such luck—he looked up from his work as she was halfway down the staircase.

“Did you sign it?” he asked. He sounded… Melanie couldn’t put her finger on it for a moment, only knew that it was _off_. He sounded _concerned_ for her. “The contract, did you?”

Melanie nodded, and Martin’s face fell, as if he’d been holding out a tiny bit of hope that she’d just dashed. Clearly she wasn’t getting out of here without a conversation and she wanted to at least make herself clear—she wasn’t going to be mucked around by their weird boys’ club.

“Look, I don’t know why you don’t like me, but you’re not going to be able to scare me off. This job could be good for me—hell, it could at least pay my rent. Is it Ghost Hunt UK? Is that why you don’t like me?”

“No!” Martin said, in a rush to assure her that he hadn’t been visibly desperate for her _not_ to work with him. “It’s—it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s complicated. Can I get you tea? I really think you should know what’s going on, even if—even if you don’t have a choice now.”

Was it part of orientation, this learning to speak all cryptically? Was it part of the manual? Or was that one of the mysterious effects of the job, you just began sounding like an NPC in a videogame breaking the news to the protagonist that they’re the only one who can save the world or defeat the witch or something. Whatever it was, it smelled like bullshit, except—well, Martin didn’t _look_ like he was taking the piss or anything.

“Sure, lots of milk, one sugar,” she said after a pause where Martin was completely still, waiting for her response. He nodded and she took a seat at the desk next to his. She wasn’t sure whose desk it was, but there was a framed photograph of—a dead plant? The frame had “In Loving Memory” engraved at the top.

Before she could work out what the hell that was about, Martin was back with two mugs. He handed one to her before taking a sip of his and sitting down. Melanie blew on hers for a moment before braving the risk of burning her mouth. The taste was—was that _salt_? Salt and some taste she struggled to identify. She must have pulled a face, because Martin said, “Sorry, is there anything wrong? With the tea, I mean.”

She was about to accuse him of poisoning her. Of at least making her shitty tea as some kind of workplace hazing, to really drive the point home that she wasn’t welcome. She was about to open her mouth and ask what was next, whether he would send her down to the archives to get a left-handed screwdriver or something—but he looked so _sincere_. Either Martin was a spectacular actor or he had no idea that whatever was in her mug, it didn’t deserve to be called tea.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, putting the mug down and deciding she would just conveniently forget to drink the rest of it. “It’s just a bit hot, that’s all. Drank it too quickly.”

“Oh, good. I mean, not good that you burnt—anyway,” he said, flustered. “Did you read what Elias made you sign?”

“He didn’t make me do anything—I skimmed it and then I signed it of my own free will.”

“Oh,” Martin said, his voice small. He sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I don’t—I’ve not actually seen Ghost Hunt UK. I’ve seen the, well, the memes, obviously, but—nothing good will come of working here. You still might have a chance to leave—I don’t know whether the contract has some kind of activation period or something, you could still go—You’re not going to get answers here. All we get are more questions.”

Back to the video game NPC thing. Great. “You said Jon didn’t actually murder anyone, so I don’t know why you’re acting so… spooky. This isn’t my first encounter with all this.”

“It’s not Jon I’m worried about. Well—of course I’m worried about him, but I don’t think… you know what? I don’t think this is the best place to have this conversation. Let’s go to the pub, my shout.”

Melanie hesitated a moment. On one hand, if Martin knew how, he could probably beat her in a fight. On the other, Martin absolutely did not strike her as someone who knew how to best use his advantages if it came to that, and she’d probably be able to give him the slip. And what did she have to lose?

“Fine,” she said, standing up. 

Martin led the way, not even noticing that she hadn’t touched her mug once.

* * *

5.  
Peter never drank the tea Martin made for him.

When Martin asked, he’d insisted there was nothing wrong with the tea Martin made—just that he was so forgetful, and then he would have a little chuckle, and Martin would chuckle too, because it seemed like the thing to do. He didn’t see what was funny, because Peter did not strike him as the forgetful sort.

Peter also insisted that he had no preferences about how he took his tea, so Martin made it the way he used to make Jon’s. Was Jon drinking enough, now that Martin wasn’t there to make tea for him? Did someone else do it in his stead? He had no illusions about the likelihood of Jon remembering to make his own. 

Sometimes, he found himself making four mugs, as if on autopilot. He would get halfway through making Tim’s before he remembered—

On those days, he forced himself to drink Tim and Sasha’s himself, even though he didn’t like how sweet Sasha took hers. Had taken. He poured Jon’s into the sink with a shaking hand.

Peter never drank the tea Martin made for him, but the ritual was all Martin had left. He could feel himself disappearing day by day and he felt more solid in the breakroom, waiting for the kettle to boil, than he did at any other time. He could pretend for a moment. It probably hindered his connection to the Lonely, but—it was all he had left.

* * *

+1.  
Martin wasn’t sure when he finally came to, when he realised that he was real, that this was real: the car, the countryside, Jon in the driver’s seat next to him, Radio Four playing softly. They were definitely well out of London, in any case, and all he could see when he looked out the window were rolling hills dotted by sheep and cows and telegraph poles. Jon had told him where they were going, but he couldn’t quite remember—it must be somewhere Jon knew, because he hadn’t looked at a map. Or perhaps you didn’t need a map, as long as you knew you were going north. As far away from the Archives as they could get.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Jon was pulling into a motorway services, saying, “Come on, Martin, let’s stretch our legs, go to the loo—do you want a sausage roll? May as well get a block of chocolate, too.”

Martin didn’t have a clear memory of the rest of the trip. At some point Jon had looked over at him and taken his hand and they had just sat like that, Jon’s right hand on the wheel and his left clasped around Martin’s. He was warm and solid and real and _there_ and as the roads became narrower and more winding, Martin felt something inside him thaw slowly. He was real. Jon was real. He’d never have to go into the Lonely again.

At some point before they reached the safehouse he fell asleep, roused only when Jon shook him gently by the shoulder. “It’ll be more comfortable to sleep inside,” Jon said in a low voice, smiling as Martin blinked at him. “We’ll just get our bags in and unpack tomorrow.”

The inside of the cabin was… perhaps if he were being polite, he would call it utilitarian. He didn’t disagree when Jon flicked on the light and said, “This is bleak.”

It was the work of about thirty seconds to work out that they only had three rooms: the kitchen/dining/living room, a bathroom and a bedroom with a double bed. He was surprised it wasn’t a single, but wondering about that felt far too close to looking a gift horse in the mouth, so instead he found the linen cupboard (or rather, a single shelf above the boiler) and made the bed. 

When Jon came in from getting the rest of their things out of the car, he suggested Martin could have the bed and he’d take the sofa, but Martin couldn’t bear the thought of him being out of sight. From the way Jon’s shoulders slumped, he felt the same way, and they curled around each other as outside, it began to rain.

Martin woke up to an empty bed, though the space next to him wasn’t yet cold. As he sat up he heard the toilet flush, and when he came out into the main room Jon was just putting on the kettle.

“Sorry, I tried not to wake you,” Jon said. “I can’t quite shake the feeling that I have to keep moving, even though there’s nowhere else to go. Sit down, I’ll—I’ll make you some tea. No sugar, but there’s teabags and some UHT milk that I haven’t been brave enough to open yet. Our options for breakfast are baked beans or baked beans.”

It was lucky that they had food at all, Martin supposed, since it seemed the cabin was visited so rarely. 

Martin went to a cupboard to look for a saucepan but Jon shooed him away, so he took a seat at the table. He pulled out his phone—he’d hoped for a text from Basira, but he hadn’t received anything. As he brought up his messages he noticed he didn’t have any service. Of course.

He ended up staring out of the window and zoning out a little, focused on working on what those brown blobs in the distance were. Very fluffy cows, perhaps?

When Jon put down a mug of tea in front of him he looked—oddly nervous? Martin had the sudden urge to kiss him, to smooth the frown from his forehead but... well, they hadn’t talked about that yet. There would be time for that. The milk must have been fine, because Jon had put some in the tea, so he took the risk of taking a sip after blowing on it for only a moment, mostly because Jon was hovering expectantly.

It was… awful. It wasn’t the milk, at least—perhaps it was the teabags? Did teabags go off? It was like Jon had waved the teabag over the top, so that all Martin got was milky water. It was surprisingly sweet, though, considering Jon had said they didn’t have any sugar. He had no idea how Jon managed to pull that off.

“Thank you,” Martin said, schooling his face in an approximation of enjoyment. “It’s lovely.”

It was alright, he reasoned. Once they got new milk and teabags, it would be fine. They were safe in this house, for now, and once they’d unpacked they could go down to the village and maybe get a closer look at those exceptionally fluffy cows. If the tea was his biggest problem, Martin figured he was doing pretty well.


End file.
